


Killing Time

by rarelypoetic



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fighting, Fisticuffs, Future Fic, M/M, boys being stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarelypoetic/pseuds/rarelypoetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian calls Mickey because he can't sleep, and shenanigans ensue under the El.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing Time

**Author's Note:**

> Product of a 4 am mind. Let me know if there are any mistakes? Title from 400 Lux by Lorde.

It’s only been four in the morning for five minutes before Ian gives up on trying to fall asleep. At first, he had blamed his insomnia on the fact that Carl, quite frankly, was a chronic masturbator - and there was nothing harder to fall asleep to than your little brother jerking one out just a few feet away. But that excuse quickly fell short when Frank came around for the night and Carl decided to sleep in the van with him, which would presumably foster some crackpot scheming and the ever elusive “father-son” bonding time that Ian had never once gotten himself. 

Ian’s not even a little bitter. He _swears_ it. 

He tells himself that he’s just going to go downstairs for a cup of coffee, but he pretty much knows that’s a lie the moment he sets foot in the kitchen. First of all, he’d gotten so used to freshly ground imported shit when Jimmy was around that the crap they keep in their cupboard just doesn’t hit the spot like it used to. And if he’s completely honest, Ian knows that he doesn’t really need caffeine right now. He’s already restless. He needs something to feed his energy into - something that can reciprocate and set him on the course to some kind of tenuous equilibrium.

Or _someone_.

The thought has barely taken root in his mind before Ian fishes his phone out of his cargo shorts and hits 4 on his keypad. Mickey’s number pops up on the screen (yeah, he’s on speed dial. what the fuck of it?) and Ian waits with baited breath. He knows it’s a long shot. Mickey is not an early riser by any means; he doesn’t get out of bed before twelve unless it’s to make money or beat the shit out of some unlucky sap. 

Five long rings pass before Ian draws the phone away from his face to hang up. Well, he tried at lea-

“Gallagher,” a groggy voice bites out on the other end. “This better be fucking good.”

Ian brings the phone back up to his ear so fast he gets whiplash. “Hey,” he says lamely. Shit. He doesn’t have a plan. He doesn’t even know exactly what he wants to do. 

“Fuu _uuuuck_ , I’m hanging up now,” Mickey grunts. 

“Wait! Would’ya just listen for a minute?” Ian begs. “I haven’t slept through the night in days. I need someone to wear me out.” 

“You saying you wanna fuck?” Mickey asks, sounding tentatively engaged in the conversation. 

“Fuck, fight, whatever. I just need an outlet.” 

“Oh, christ. Fine. Meet me under the El in twenty.”

Ian grins despite the begrudging tone in Mickey’s voice. “Got it.” 

“You owe me one, Gallagher!” 

Ian pockets his phone and heads upstairs to put a decent shirt on. It’s the middle of summer still, and he’s got the next two days off from work, so he doesn’t really have to worry about being back by a certain time. It’s liberating and scary all at once, because Ian feels like every moment he’s not in motion is time wasted. Lip’s already got his big fancy future laid out for him on a silver fucking platter - he’s already hurtling towards the path that he was always meant to take; the golden boy, the boy who knows too much to be stuck in the slums of Chicago all his life. 

But Ian? If he’s not careful, if he doesn’t work as hard as he can to get out, he won’t. Better off a soldier killed in his prime than a forty year old deadbeat with a metric shit ton of resentment under his belt. 

Ian mulls over these dull prospects on his way over to the El. He tries to shake himself out of his haze. Mickey will notice right away and he’ll be called on his emo bullshit before he can even think of a defensive retort. That’s kind of Mickey’s M.O. - see a weak spot and attack it. Ian guesses that’s what happens when you’re raised in a goddamn jungle of a home.

A firm slap on the back of his head snaps Ian right out of his thoughts. He turns around just in time to see Mickey drawing back his hand with an almost malicious grin on his lips. “Hey, fuckhead. Heard you were lookin’ to score tonight.” 

“In your dreams,” Ian mutters, turning away so Mickey doesn’t catch sight of the dopey smile on his face. 

“Well, you must’a called me here for something, huh? If not, better pay up. I’ve already met my quota for charitable deeds this month.” 

“My ass. You haven’t met your quota of charitable deeds for this _week_ ,” Ian teases. Mickey rolls his eyes and gives him a firm enough shove that Ian stumbles. 

“Seriously, though. You wanna tell me why I’m functioning at fuck o’clock in the morning?” 

“Like I said,” Ian breathes, stopping for a second and staring up at the vacant train tracks. “Couldn’t sleep. Haven’t been able to since Lip fucked off to hang out with his college friends last week.” 

That’s a little white lie. He hasn’t slept right since last month when school ended. 

“Wanna bang? Can’t promise my dick even works at this time, but we can try,” Mickey offers, looking uncharacteristically earnest. Moonlight illuminates one half of his face, making it stand out in sharp relief against the other. Even in the dim light his eyes are stupid and lurid blue and Ian almost hates himself because he knows Mickey would kill him for waxing poetic about his eyes or his skin or any of that other flowery bullshit. 

“Not in the mood.” 

Mickey makes an annoyed face, his features going all pinched and his brow furrowing in a way that means there’s going to be hell to pay very soon. Ian gets an idea. 

“Hit me,” Ian says. The anger in Mickey’s expression promptly melts into confusion.

“Look, I’m tense, you’re tense. I need to blow off some steam. Let’s fight.” 

Mickey scoffs, but Ian knows very well what interest looks like on Mickey, and he knows he’s piqued it at least a little. “I think I have enough bruises and lacerations on my person right now.” 

It’s a weak excuse, and they both know it.

“Yeah? You afraid I’m too big for you to fight now? Not that fifteen year old you hunted down a few years ago, y’know. Could probably kick the shit out of you if I wanted,” Ian goads. 

A spark flickers in Mickey’s eye, and Ian has about three seconds to register that he’s got him hooked before he gets tackled to the ground. Mickey lands on top of him heavily, and they wrestle for dominance for a good minute before Ian is able to buck him off and roll into a crouching position. A hit of nostalgia almost knocks him right back on his ass, though. Add a tire iron into the mix, and this is almost exactly like that time he went to Mickey’s house to get the gun back and they ended up fucking for the first time. The brief moment of vulnerability that this memory brings allows Mickey a clear swing at his head. The blow probably isn’t as hard as it would’ve been if Mickey had an actual chip on his shoulder, but it still fucking stings. 

Ian manages to duck when the next swing comes, and counters it with a sharp jab to what he knows is the softest part of Mickey’s stomach. The hit brings him almost to his knees, and Ian wastes a brief second feeling bad about it before Mickey recovers enough to swipe a foot out and trip Ian, turning his gangly legs into a severe disadvantage. 

“Gettin’ soft, Gallagher.” A lascivious smirk teases at the corner of his mouth.

Ian breaks the fall with his back, probably bruising his kidneys in the process, and takes a moment for the impact to really sink into his spine before moving again. This time, he hooks both ankles around Mickey’s legs and yanks his knees towards his chest with all of his strength. Mickey goes tumbling down like a sack of bricks, his face unexpectedly smashing into Ian’s chest. What otherwise might have been a soft landing is broken by the sharp angle of Mickey’s jaw on Ian’s ribcage, and both boys take a second to groan at the stabbing pain of their bones jarring against one another.

“Maybe we’re both a little out of practice,” Ian huffs. He tilts his chin to glance down at Mickey, who’s glaring up at him, half-bemused, half-disgruntled. Mickey jabs him in sore part of his ribs for good measure and then drags himself further up so that they’re face to face. 

The first thing that Mickey does surprises Ian: they make eye contact. Usually Mickey can only look at him directly for a few seconds before his gaze skitters away; Ian always thought it was a nervous tic of his, but maybe it was just that he didn’t want his thoughts to be read so plainly. Because looking straight at Mickey is like looking at an open book. Something about his eyes are innocent, almost, like the callosity that’s characteristic of the rest of his features decided to skip the most vulnerable part of him. Against the sharp lines of his nose and jaw, Mickey’s eyes stand out like two china blue lodestars. 

For that brief lapse of time, a half-second at most, Mickey is callow and pliant in Ian’s hands. Mesmerized, Ian brings his fingers up to the purplish bruise already blooming on the edge of his jawline and presses his fingers into the tender skin there. Mickey jerks towards him, mouth falling open, and Ian takes the opportunity to snag his bottom lip with his teeth and bite down just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. As it spills over his chin, Mickey curses and surges forward in retaliation. 

Their mouths knock against one another’s awkwardly for a moment, teeth scraping, but Ian inclines his head just so and they line up perfectly. Mickey licks into his mouth like he’s hungry for it and Ian responds in kind, unable to think past the drunken feeling of being simultaneously sleep deprived and addled with adrenaline. 

Mickey tastes oddly sweet to Ian’s tongue, and it might be the remnants of blood or it might be his goddamn sweet tooth, but either way it’s ridiculously pleasant. Ian thinks he just might be able to stay like this for months, perfectly content to kiss the asshole on top of him until his lungs shrivel up in his chest and the whole neighborhood declares them MIA.

On the other hand, it’s nearly five in the morning by now and they’re two bruised delinquents making out under the El on a sticky summer night. There’s nothing particularly magical or romantic about it, but it doesn’t matter. _Because you’re exhausted and half out of your mind_ , a part of Ian’s mind tells him. But also because it’s _Mickey_. 

The boy in question pulls away from him suddenly, and Ian misses his warmth so viscerally for a moment that it’s hard to remember to breathe. For his part, Mickey is slack-jawed and nearly cross-eyed when he stares down at Ian. He looks oddly thoughtful as he sits back on his haunches and blows out a long breath.

“You fuck me up, Gallagher.” 

It’s said with a hint of levity, but it belies the sincerity that Ian hears crystal clear in his voice. This might be the first time Mickey has ever been so honest with him - so Ian takes a chance.

“Why are you afraid to call me by my name?”

Mickey hesitates for a moment, and then says, “Because that makes this personal. That would mean you’re mine.” 

Ian leans in closer and catches a drop of blood from Mickey’s split lip on his tongue. “It’s too damn late for that.”


End file.
